


it's crash beat through the night again

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark!Charlie, Gen, Post-Episode s10e11 There's No Place Like Home, Season/Series 10, blink and you miss it deancas undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 12:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3249071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is always the first down here.</p><p>He orders water, but he doesn't always drink it. Sometimes, when he does, it tastes like bourbon, even though it looks clear as ice. Other times, on the bad nights, it's blood and ash in his mouth. He is so thirsty, on some nights, but terrified to find out what the taste will be. Terrified at the thought what it's gonna look like if he spits it right back out.</p><p>Most nights, he orders it and keeps it between his hands the entire time. The time until he wakes up again. It's nice, kind of, to have something cold and soothing against his skin. Something that doesn't set his veins on fire, blanks out his damaged mind and twists it like a broken screw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's crash beat through the night again

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**it's crash beat through the night again**

 

_it's crash beat through the night again_

_my mad, mad mind_

_talking just with you and me_

_the song, the poison, dance, dance_

_dance_

 

 

 

 

Dean is always the first down here.

 

He orders water, but he doesn't always drink it. Sometimes, when he does, it tastes like bourbon, even though it looks clear as ice. Other times, on the bad nights, it's blood and ash in his mouth. He is so _thirsty_ , on some nights, but terrified to find out what the taste will be. Terrified at the thought what it's gonna look like if he spits it right back out.

 

Most nights, he orders it and keeps it between his hands the entire time. The time until he wakes up again. It's nice, kind of, to have something cold and soothing against his skin. Something that doesn't set his veins on fire, blanks out his damaged mind and twists it like a broken screw.

 

He is always the first, so he sits down at the bar, orders, and waits. The dark-haired girl tending the bar is never here. Dean barely remembers how she looked like, but that's not the issue. The bar in itself looks exactly the same, down to the details on every single bottle, but everything a few meters away from the counter where he's sitting fades and is then swallowed up by pitch black darkness.

 

And from that darkness, she comes, every night. Some nights, she let's him wait, only shows up when the water in the glass has been warmed up by Dean's hands to the point where he can't feel it anymore, has to order a new one.

 

The barkeep is a guy with no face. Or, maybe he does have one, but Dean never looks, always keeps his head down. It's a terror of a thought, that he might face up to it only to stare right back into his own eyes. Black or green, it wouldn't even make a difference. Not here.

 

But night after night, he doesn't look. Stares at the water, wishes he had more of it, so it'd look blue. Like the light blue just over the horizon. Like –

 

“You're not gonna drink it tonight?”

 

Dean glances to his right, and there she is. This time, he hadn't even heard her coming. Maybe her feet don't actually make a sound, and he just wants them to, so he'll feel less exposed, less easy to find.

 

Celeste sits down, raises her eyebrows when Dean doesn't answer. It's funny, even her hair looks darker, even though he knows the color is the exact same.

 

He looks back down at the water for a moment. It's cooler than his feverish skin.

 

“No,” he clears his throat, shifts in the bar stool, “no, not tonight.”

 

Celeste shakes her head at him, tips back a shot that appeared out of nowhere, then looks him up and down critically, her voice a sharp bite.

 

“You know why it's here though, don't you?”

 

Dean snorts, takes his hands off the glass, only to put them right back where they were. Celeste has never touched the water so far, but there's no way he can trust her, not even here. It's not her, after all, not completely. Nothing is really anything here, no matter how real it looks and feels.

 

“ _Nothing_ is here, at least nothing good.” He drags a hand down his face, tense all over and feeling drained, then wraps his fingers around the glass again. It's getting warmer already. “Look, can we just talk about something else?”

 

Celeste downs another shot, then hands the empty glass to the guy behind the counter. Dean looks away and stares at his own hands.

 

From the corner of his vision, he can see Celeste fixing him with a glare, her eyes narrowed. It's hard looking at her directly, knowing what she is.

 

“ _We_ are here, Dean. But you can't return here forever, you know.”

 

Dean lifts his head then, and Celeste – she doesn't seem angry, but there's something behind her eyes, something like shadows in empty corners, like fists against concrete, and shards of glass strewn across red floors. It's here, and only here, that she really says something Dean can understand, however much he hates that it is there at all.

 

Dean stares at her, the pounding of his heart a crash beat in the air – he is almost always afraid when he's here, but it's a dull fear that is in everything and anything around, that he just flows in without ever drowning, because it's everywhere.

 

Celeste's mouth twitches in something like a bitter grin, her eyes alight with pain and knowing.

 

“One of these nights, you'll have to look up again, Dean. Look there,” and she jerks her head sideways, at where the faceless man is again stocking the shelves in front of the mirror with bottles full of liquid red.

 

Dean holds onto the glass tighter, grits his teeth against the pulse beating in his head, his arm.

 

Celeste shakes her head at him, as if amused. “Drink your water, Dean. You're shaking the whole place up again.”

 

Dean looks down, only to find that she's right. His hands are shaking, and the bottles are rattling on their shelves along with it.

 

He swallows, his throat dried up and aching. “And you?” He looks up, meets her eyes again. “What are you gonna do?”

 

Celeste laughs, deep and sultry. She leans close to Dean, her voice a throaty whisper, “I'm gonna find that dark night chick again and dance, dance, _dance_.”

 

Dean shivers and jerks away from her, but she only laughs again. Celeste stands up and turns back towards the blackness at Dean's back. She's moving away, but lays a hand on Dean's shoulder before she leaves, her nails only slightly digging through his jacket.

 

“You won't have to go alone through all of it, Dean. But you're not here for me, and I'm just driving through. This is not _my_ night.”

 

Dean closes his eyes and draws in a shuddering breath, but nods. Celeste's vice-like grip tightens for a second, then she lets go. Dean hears her breathe in deeply, as if the air around her suddenly changed, the dark of the bar replaced with the open sky. There's a smile in her tone, though her voice is already fading.

 

“You can see the stars tonight.”

 

She is gone.

 

Dean is left with the clinking of glasses and the water and the silence. The faceless man must be standing right in front of him. His heart is still beating fast, a drum in counter to the throb of his arm, but the water gives him comfort, focus. The shaking eases.

 

He drinks it, a cool river flowing through his insides. Though his heart feels lighter for it, the pain is still there.

 

But it's _his_ night. And he has to see. Slowly, he lifts his head.

 

He looks up.

 

 

 

 


End file.
